


Justice Be Done

by freakazoid



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Gen, JUST, Super Mega Angst, a conclusion to roy's character arc, dont ask, dont even know why i wrote this, enjoy the angst okay, just read it, mega angst, so self indulgent, though this isnt a great conclusion, which i felt could have been better concluded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 15:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11382870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakazoid/pseuds/freakazoid
Summary: “Though he is widely regarded as one of the most influential people in the history of Amestris, the last Fuhrer-King ruled for less than five years. During that time, he established democracy in the government, revolutionized State Alchemy, and did his best to let justice be done for the tragedy of Ishval.He is also a highly controversial figure, some seeing him as a visionary and a hero, and others seeing him the same way he saw himself:Irredeemable.”





	Justice Be Done

       The trials start soon after Roy Mustang takes office. It takes a reasonable amount of leverage to get the political sphere to accept them, but Roy is grateful for the excessive power his position has in the wake of Bradley. Power is . . . enjoyable.

       Of course, this is just one more reason, Roy thinks, why he shouldn’t be allowed to have the position.

 

**I.**

 

       Solf J. Kimblee smirks all the way through his trial.

       It’s like a fly on the edge of Roy’s vision, and he runs over possibilities in his head—but no, the man can’t have anything extra up his sleeve (or in his stomach). He was X-rayed multiple times, because after the last incident nobody is taking any chances.

       Kimblee’s palms are a mass of scarred flesh, courtesy of Roy, to make sure he can’t use his explosive alchemy. If Roy squints, he can see the former Crimson Lotus wince as he gesticulates. As the judge of this trial, he’s supposed to be an unbiased observer, but it’s not as if it would matter—so he lets himself feel some smugness at the grimaces.

       There is one verdict and one sentence that will be the outcome of this trial, and even the defendant treats it as a foregone conclusion. Not that he was ever shy about declaring his proclivity for violence, that is.

       “I, Solf Kimblee, have killed one million, two thousand, four hundred and twenty-six Ishvalans.” A slow grin makes its way across the pale man’s face, and even with burnt palms, an unshaven face, and scraggly hair, Roy shudders at the too-wide smile. “I remember every one  _ perfectly _ .” Kimblee pauses, eyes flickering over the audience. Then he raises a singular finder, pointing towards someone across the room. The clank of his chains is the only sound heard in the silence. Roy’s eyes travel to see and Ishvalan man, sitting in the jury, and registers alarm before the smooth voice interrupts his thoughts.

       “You know, I knew someone who looked quite similar to  _ you _ , in fact. Got crushed under her own house as it fell. Sister, perhaps?” Kimblee says it casually, but his eyes are welded to the man like a predator stalking its prey.

       The juror seems frozen, and his mouth opens slightly in a horror reflected by the rest of the people in the room.

       Kimblee grins, narrowing in on a nerve as he leans in, and continues—“She didn’t die immediately, of course—oh, no, they never do. The rubble crushed everything below her hips, and I could see the blood oozing out from under it when I got close. She even coughed up some, when she saw me coming. She must’ve known who I was, and tried to escape. Obviously, it’s quite hard to run with all that bone and muscle crushed to bits, so all that accomplished was making the bone poke out through the skin even more”—the relish permeating his voice made Roy’s stomach turn—“There was this little weeping noise, and blood dripped down her face. Trying to say someone’s na”—

       “Enough!”

       Roy slams his hands down with force that surprises even him. Everyone turns to look, as if shaken out of a trance. “That’s, enough, Kimblee,” he repeats. “Are you confessing to willing participation in and facilitation of genocide?”

       Kimblee smiles, as he always does. “Ishval was the best time of my life. I loved every  _ minute  _ of it, and if I had the choice _ , I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat _ .”

 

\--

       The verdict is inevitable, but Roy announces it anyways. “Solf J. Kimblee, this court finds you guilty. For crimes against humanity, I sentence you to death.”

       Kimblee just smirks, as if he knows something the world doesn’t.

 

\--

        Kimblee tips his hat with a flourish. It’s not something he should be able to do, given the chains which bind him to the wall—hell, Roy wants to know how he even got the hat in the first place.

       “Fuhrer King Mustang,” he says, and it almost,  _ almost  _ sounds sincere. “Have you come to revel in your victory?”       

        “No,” Roy replies. He’s not sure why he’s here, if he’s being honest. Maybe he feels he owes something to Kimblee—some acknowledgement of his role in the man’s impending death, perhaps.

       “Really.” Kimblee raises his brows, and doesn’t bother to hide the loathing in his eyes.

       Roy stares mutely, trying to collect his thoughts under the steady gaze. “You really are  _ disgusting _ ,” Kimblee says, conversationally. He examines his dirty fingernails.

       Roy stares incredulously, at a loss for words.

       Kimblee glances up. “At least  _ I’m  _ honest, Flame Alchemist.” He stands. “We both know if you cared as much about justice as you claim to, you’d be right next to me in this cell.”

       “One month,” Roy snaps back. Kimblee looks slightly confused. “One month until  _ my  _ trial. Believe me, I could  _ never  _ forget about the things I did in Ishval.”

        “You’d put yourself on trial?” muses Kimblee.

       “That’s justice,” replies Roy, and Kimblee tilts his head a bit to the side. There’s an unreadable expression on his face. Roy turns to leave -

“Good luck.”

       He spins to find the man staring at him through the bars of his cell, an odd note in his voice.

If Roy had to guess, he’d say it was respect.

       He’s not sure what to think.

 

\--

 

       Kimblee spends ten minutes suffering after they level their guns at him. One hand is clamped over his stomach, crimson oozing through his fingers. He’s all groans and shallow breath and agony when his time is up, curled pathetically in the dirt. Somehow, he still manages a chilling grin as he stares up at Roy, blood staining his teeth a sickly pink.    


       Roy looks straight into those awful eyes and puts a bullet between them.

       He knows he should say something to the firing squad—something about being humane, maybe, or how he  _ knows  _ they weren’t aiming to kill—but he can’t find a shred of condemnation in him. There’s a part of him that wishes he’d just left Kimblee there, bleeding out in a painful and protracted death. The man would’ve deserved it.

 

**II.**

 

       Knox seems as he always is, tired and sad. He looks out across the room and reaches for a cigarette that isn’t there before awkwardly crossing his wrists in his lap. Roy notices his wife and son sitting in the audience, next to a woman and a child that must be grandchildren. They look more anxious than the man actually on trial.

“Robert Knox, you are on trial for unethical human experimentation. How do you plead?”

He doesn’t even look up. “Guilty, Your Honor.”

 

\--

 

       Knox doesn’t have any expression, even throughout his testimony, as he recounts the horrors that went on.

“We got whoever - women, children, old people - was alive after the alchemists and army were finished with ‘em. Not many survived their initial wounds, but that was probably a good thing.

       We’d strap ‘em down to the hospital bed, usually too drugged out to struggle but you could tell they still felt pain by the screaming. You’d start simple, breaking joints and pulling out fingernails or teeth, see what happened.”

Roy stops him from explaining everything.

 

\--

 

       “Robert Knox,” Roy announces, and hesitates.  _ Justice _ , he reminds himself.  _ This is justice. _ “This court finds you guilty..”

       Knox stares at him, sad and tired.

_        Justice. _

       “For your crimes against humanity, I sentence you to death.”

       Roy doesn’t look anywhere except the floor as he leaves.

 

\--

 

“I’m sorry,” Roy says.

“I know,” Knox replies. He reaches for a cigarette which isn’t there.

 

\--

 

Roy shoots the man himself, as a professional courtesy, and tries not to think about what he’s doing.

 

**III.**

 

       “It was for the safety of our country!” Olivier snarls, leaning in.

       “Do you confess to being complicit in the genocide of the Ishvalen people?” Roy repeats.

 

\--

        “Olivier Armstrong, this court finds you guilty,” Roy says, and he resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, “For your crimes against humanity, I sentence you to death.” The words are repetitive, almost easy to speak, now.

 

\--

 

       “Please,” Armstrong begs. “She was just doing what she thought was right, you have to understand”—

        “I  _ do  _ understand,” Roy enunciates, setting his jaw. “That’s what we all did, Major. You included. We all have to be prepared to accept the consequences.”

It’s an odd sight, to see such an intimidating man sob in earnest. “ _ Please. _ ”

       Roy turns away. “You’re dismissed, Major.”

 

\--

 

       Armstrong calls in her own men for the firing squad. It’s an odd request, and Roy probably would refuse if it wasn’t Olivier Armstrong sneering, “The Eastern men couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn on a clear day. Don’t expect me to trust them with my execution, Mustang.”

       She collapses seconds after the order to fire is given, and her limp body is so very  _ wrong _ , the antithesis of the Major General Roy knows.

        They give her a civilian’s funeral. That’s what happens to war criminals, after all, though it would offend the former General deeply.

       Roy decides not to attend, out of respect for the family of the deceased.

 

\--

 

       Alex Armstrong sends in a request to be reassigned from Central, and Roy signs it without a word. He doesn’t see the man again.

 

 

**IV.**

 

           Roy takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. Riza stands behind him, as always, and her presence strengthens his resolve. He strides purposefully towards the middle of the stage, the eyes of the crowd fixed on him in expectation. When he goes to speak, he notices his mouth is dry, and licks his lips. Somehow this is worse than his entrance speech.

The words are written in his own messy handwriting, and he’s suddenly very thankful for the reference.

“When,” he begins, then clears his throat. “When I first came before you as Fuhrer, I promised to bring one thing above all to Amestris: justice. In my short reign, I have done my best to bring about justice in all ways possible. I have reinstated democracy in Amestris, and done my very best to create reparations for the harm done by my predecessor. One of the most visible things I have done is seek to bring those who participated in the Ishvalen massacre to justice. I have presided over many such trials, and punished criminals accordingly. However, there is one trial left to be completed, one man who has not yet been brought to justice for his heinous crimes.”

Roy pauses, and even though everyone hangs on his words with wide eyes, all he hears is blood rushing to his head.

“That man,” he says, and his lips are suddenly very dry, “is myself.”

They stare, open mouths and wide eyes.

“I, the Fuhrer King,” Roy says, loudly and quickly before anyone can interrupt, “do hereby arrest myself, Roy Mustang, on charges of crimes against humanity.”

He holds out his hands, and Riza, behind him, doesn’t hesitate. With a  _ click  _ that’s somehow loud despite the crowd, handcuffs are fastened onto his wrists. There is no resistance as Riza leads him away, staring straight ahead.

 

\--

 

           The Elric brothers don’t take the news well.

This was expected.

“What the  _ hell _ , Colonel?” Edward snarls. His automail arm slams into the prison bars with enough force that Roy feels the vibrations resonate throughout the cell. Alphonse winces at the sharp sound, but Edward doesn’t even notice.

“I’m not a colonel anymore,” Roy corrects, some vestige of their customary verbal sparring bleeding through. “I was discharged from the military.”

“On  _ your own damn orders _ !” Edward hisses.

“Someone had to give the order.”

“Not true!” The metal hand slams into the bars once again.

“Colonel—Fuhrer”—Alphonse hesitates on the address, “Mustang. Hasn’t there been enough death already?”

“There might not be death involved,” Roy says, but even as the words form on his tongue they taste false.

“ _ Bullshit _ .” Edward stabs an accusing finger at his former superior. “Give up this stupid—this stupid  _ self-punishment  _ you can’t seem to get over”—

Roy’s face hardens. “This is  _ justice _ , Elric.”

“So you’re going to just going to skip out on all of us—on  _ Lieutenant Hawkeye _ ”—

“Riza knew what was going to happen! She’s the reason I got this far!”

“And what? You’re just going to leave her?”

“I did the best I could for Riza,” growls Roy.

“ _ The best you can do _ ,” snarls Edward, “Is to not abandon her!”

Roy stands up, sharply. “She’s  _ alive _ . She gets to follow her goals, live her life.  _ That’s  _ what’s important!”

“Did you see her give up when Lust almost killed you?” Alphonse butts in. “You can’t leave her like this, Colo—Mustang.”

“Why don’t you  _ ask  _ her how she feels instead of bringing her up to support your naïve ideals about how the world works?”

“You’ve changed! You’re sorry!” Edward protests.

“That’s  _ not enough _ . That doesn’t bring back the people I’ve killed, Elric.”

“Neither does killing you!”

“These people have a right to justice for the murder of their people. I’m simply acknowledging that right.”

“I’m not going to let you do this,” hisses Edward.

“You can’t stop me,” declares Roy.

 

**V.**

 

As per his will, they hand him over to an Ishvalen court for the proceedings.

 

\--

 

        “Roy Mustang, you are on trial for crimes against humanity. How do you plead?”

“Guilty.”

       Roy doesn’t even bother to hire a lawyer to plead his case.

 

\--

 

“Roy Mustang, this court finds you guilty.”

Roy can’t find the will to look up.

“For crimes against humanity, I sentence you . . .”

The pause isn’t long, but it feels like an eternity between syllables.

“. . . to  _ death _ .”

Everything comes crashing down. Roy thought it would be easier because he  _ knows  _ what’s going to happen, knows what he deserves, but in this trials there was a spark of hope that was never quite quashed:  _ maybe you’ll live. Maybe they’ll excuse you on a technicality. Maybe what you’ve done since then can make up for it. _

It’s all gone now. Roy Mustang is as good as dead.

       He won’t get to watch Elicia grow up, won’t get to attend Edward’s wedding to Winry, won’t see Amestris fully recover, won’t even see leaves fall from the trees next Autumn.

“Burn him,” someone hisses.

       Roy can’t keep the horror out of his face, and he thinks he hears someone laugh but that doesn’t matter, not now because  _ Oh, god, please no. Anything but fire, anything but fire, anything but fire - _

_        Lust, her skin cracking and peeling away to reveal muscles, bone turning to ash, her screams ringing in his ears . . . Envy screeching as its eyes boil away, bit by bit . . . _

       “We don’t burn people,” the judge says, slowly, then, “we’re not monsters.”

       Roy almost laughs but doesn’t because Envy is the one thing that has made him feel really and truly human and now, well.

       He supposes he is a monster, through and through.

       His mask isn’t enough to cover his fear, and it cracks and falls away, revealing a man who’s simply scared to die.

_        Coward. _

       He buries his face in sweaty hands.

       His hands have killed a lot of people. Some deserved it. 

       Most didn’t.

       Maybe a firing squad is a mercy he shouldn’t have.

 

\--

 

           “Why?” his sister asks him.

“You don’t know the things I did in Ishval,” he tells her.

 

\--

 

           Roy hears Riza come in but doesn’t turn around. He thinks that maybe if he does, he won’t be able to keep his composure.

“Sir, you sent for me,” Riza says, in a monotone perfected through years of military service. Even though he isn’t looking at her, he can feel her standing at attention. He doesn’t bother to correct her—she’s not his subordinate anymore. It wouldn’t change her attitude, anyways.

“Yes,” Roy replies slowly. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” Riza replies, and Roy wonders if she’ll regret her words. “What do you need?”

Roy pauses, grimacing as he tries to explain. “Did you . . . did you see what happened to Kimblee?”

“No, sir.” Riza is  _ definitely  _ using military protocol to cope with her emotion. Roy wishes he could do the same.

“They botched the execution.”—Roy doesn’t add that he’s almost positive it was on purpose—“and the man spent a quarter hour bleeding in the dirt.”

There is a pause. Riza says nothing.

“I…” Roy hesitates, and curses himself for his weakness. “I don’t want that to happen to me.”

More silence.

“Hawkeye, you’re the best shot in the military. You can drop a man quick as you like at fifty paces.”

This time, Roy hears an intake of breath as the implication is understood. He can’t stop himself from turning on his heel, and Riza’s wide eyes and horrified face confront him.

“Sir . . .” she says.

“Riza, please don’t let that happen to me.  _ Please _ .”

He called her by her first name. Despite their closeness, it’s something he’s never done before. The fear is getting to him. On the other hand, he has less than a week left to live. Might as well make it count.

“I . . .” she hesitates, and Roy’s heart twists at the pain visible on her face.

“This is the last request I’ll ever make of you,” he pleads, and Riza stares at him sadly.

“I . . . yes. I’ll do as you ask. Sir.”

Roy sags a little against the bars of his cell. “Thank you.” He looks into her eyes. “I’m sorry I had to ask this of you.”

Riza makes a small move as if to leave, then pauses. She moves closer, and, without flinching at the cold steel, kisses him on his cheek, feather-light.

She leaves him with a glimpse of what could have been, in another lifetime they could’ve had together.

Rain indoors is uncommon, but it pours today.

 

\--

 

           “I’m proud to have a son like you,” Madame Christmas tells him through poorly concealed sobs.

 

**VII.**

 

       At dawn, the grim-faced guard bangs on the bars with a heavy fist.

       Roy slowly opens his eyes from a dream. It wasn’t a good dream—his dreams have been bad since Ishval. He forgets where he is for a second, thinking of the sweaty tents so many years ago, and then snaps quickly back to the present.

       Prison. He’s in prison.

       "Get up, Mustang,” the guard says in a raspy monotone. Roy obeys, sitting up and rubbing his eyes free of too little sleep. He wonders what’s going on for a few blessed seconds before he remembers.

_        One week. Friday. _

_        Shot at dawn. _

       Roy’s heart falls through the floor, and the room spins for several seconds.  _ Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. _

       Automatically, as if through some sort of haze, he stands from his bed. Another guard appears, and opens the door to his cell. Then they cuff his wrists behind his back—the metal is cold on Roy’s skin. The duo flanks him, one hand on each elbow, an escort with just a hint of violence beneath the surface.

       Roy feels as if he’s traipsing through water, each movement slow and purposeful.

_        One foot in front of the other. _

_        Right foot. _

_        Left foot. _

_        Right foot. _

_        I’m going to die. _

_        Left foot. _

_        Right foot. _

_        I’m going to die. _

_        Left foot. _

_        I’m going to die. _

_        Right foot. _

_        I’m going to die. _

_        I’m going to die. _

_        I’m going to die. _

       He stops in his tracks abruptly, and the men on each side of him shove him along roughly. He tries, desperately, to regain his mind which is slipping away like a pebble in a river of fear. Movement become mechanical, and he keeps his eyes welded to the ground.

_        Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. _

       Then grass is under his feet, and a cool breeze ruffles his hair. It’s uncomfortably cold and Roy realizes it’s because of the sweat coating his skin. He looks up despite himself—the sun is peeking over the horizon, casting everything in an orange-red glow. A brick wall looms over the scene, stained with something dark that makes Roy’s stomach turn. Over on the other side of the field, five people stand at attention in military gear.

       They all have rifles. Roy realizes he’s shaking, and sweat drips down his forehead despite the cool morning. He’s tempted to collapse, right then and there, but something like sheer, stubborn pride keeps him upright.

_        I will face justice bravely. _

       The forced march over to his wall is even longer than the one from his cell. The sun is in his eyes.

_        I will not see it set.  _ Fear again jolts through him. Sweat is on his lips. He licks them and tastes blood.

       “Blindfold?”

_        I will face justice bravely. _

       It takes willpower Roy doesn’t know he has to shake his head in a slow, jerky motion. The guards walk away, leaving him alone in front of the wall. He feels pinned there like a butterfly in a collecting case under the glare of the sun.

_        Just a little bit more. Stay standing. Stay standing. Stay— _

       “Ready,” booms out across the field, and lead is weighing Roy down. His knees threaten to give out.

       “Aim.”

       Riza brings up her rifle. She is crying.

       Fear is cold and hard in Roy’s gut.

       “Fire!”

       One final thought flits across his consciousness as death approaches faster than the speed of sound--

_        I’m so sorry. _

Agony explodes in every atom of his flesh. The sun is bright in his eyes. Blood stains the grass. He is falling—

       Then—

       The body of Roy Mustang slides down the prison wall, leaving a smear of blood in its wake.

       The sun rises over the corpse.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhh!! as i was editing the formatting for this I remembered how much fun it was to write!! Roy is my son i feel bad about doing this to him but part of being a fic writer is putting ur faves through hell. thanks to all of you who decided to join me in my own personal angstfest :D. also i love review feel free to tell me how you feel about this fic!!!


End file.
